


we all want the same thing

by callunavulgari



Series: TW Bingo [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coda, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marking, Mates, Multi, Polyamory, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stop freaking out,” Malia whispers, rubbing herself against him. It’s not really in an intentionally hot way, more like the way that dogs and cats rub themselves against you because they want pets, but she’s naked, and Stiles is a perfectly functional teenage boy sandwiched between <i>two</i> very hot people. Who are in his bed.</p><p>“I’m not freaking out,” he whispers back furiously, voice too high to be steady. “Are you freaking out? And oh yeah, important question. <i>Why is Derek Hale in my bed</i>?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	we all want the same thing

**Author's Note:**

> For my TWBingo square: Hickey. Originally this square was reserved for hunter Stiles, but the whole spooning thing in 4x02 happened and I got the intense desire to write what would happen when Derek crawled through Stiles' window and found Malia there, especially if they both considered Stiles' room (and Stiles himself) their territory. I'm still not entirely happy with the way this turned out, but I'm blaming that on the fact that I've never written Malia before and don't have a complete grasp of her character yet.
> 
> Warning: Malia and Derek both take an active part of the sex scene here. They do not touch each other, least of all sexually, but there is a mention of Malia looking like she wants to touch Derek (though that may just be wishful thinking on Stiles' part) so if that's a bit too close to incest for you, you may want to avoid this fic or at least the latter half of it.

Northern California, even in the dead of summer, is usually manageable. It’s hot, but it's almost never overwhelmingly humid like summers in New York had been, where the heat would stick to your skin and make things hazy with smog. Mid-September, things usually start cooling down. Only it isn’t this year. The heat is so bad that by the time Derek pulls himself onto Stiles’ roof, he’s already sticky with sweat, and is strongly considering stripping down to just his tank top.  
  
He hasn’t done this, hasn't come to Stiles' house, since before the nogitsune, before he got back from his trip with Cora. There had never been time. He and Stiles had spent the whole time missing each other before and then the idiot had gotten himself possessed and Stiles’ father had installed those security cameras, so Derek hadn’t been too keen on sneaking into the sheriff’s underage son’s room, even if the sheriff _did_ know about werewolves.  
  
But he’s exhausted and so emotionally drained from everything with Kate — and god, _Kate_ , using him _again_ —  and Stiles’ room has always been safe. Derek isn’t stupid enough to think that he can get away with sleeping there, but Stiles is usually up late, perpetually sleep-deprived even before the demon, and Derek needs this. He needs Stiles’ scent surrounding him right now, the familiarity of sweat and teenage hormones and maybe the sheets won’t have Derek's scent clinging to them anymore, but they will smell like _Stiles_.  
  
The moment he gets the window open a burst of chilled air is there to greet him and he breathes a sigh of relief, falling through the window a bit less gracefully than usual. He’s still relearning his limbs, brain a jumble of of confusing memories, and the awareness that less than forty-eight hours ago, his body was that of a teenager.  
  
The room is too quiet, he notes with surprise, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s because Stiles is actually _asleep_ , nose buried in the pillows, breathing slow and peaceful.  
  
He blinks, shaking his head to clear the sense of deja-vu. Stiles’ room is actually different than it was the last time he'd been in it. He’s painted it, somehow stripping the weird snowboarding decal that had been on his wall for ages. His bed is on the opposite wall and there’s a bulletin board covered in papers, photos, and string on the wall the bed used to be pushed up against. It smells different now too, more like fear-sweat and less like hormones.  
  
Blinking the tiredness from his eyes, he finally manages to tear his gaze away from the room itself, and turns to look back at Stiles.  
  
There’s a pair of blue eyes peering at him from over Stiles’ shoulder and it takes him a long moment to realize that it isn’t a threat — that some strange wolf hasn’t crept in while Stiles was sleeping — and he can probably put his teeth away. He’ll blame the exhaustion and the mess that is his head for why he didn’t notice her right away, but he knows that face, the memories from when he’d been sixteen for a second time hazy and unclear, but there nonetheless.  
  
“You’re the coyote,” he says, spine tense, the wolf coiled under the surface of his skin, waiting to spring out and attack. He searches for a name. “Malia.”  
  
“And you’re trespassing,” she growls, baring her fangs at him over the pale curve of Stiles’ shoulder.  
  
Derek fights down the urge to growl back, to flash his eyes and protest that she’s the one who’s trespassing — that this was his space long before Stiles even met her. Instead, he just stands there, and they stare each other down, the room quiet save for her subvocal growl and the sounds of Stiles breathing. He murmurs something in his sleep and they both break their stare-off to glance at him. There are no signs of nightmares though, just Stiles, who talks as much in his sleep as he does awake.  
  
When he looks away from Stiles’ face, he finds Malia staring at him again, eyes thankfully no longer glowing blue. Her eyes are a darker brown than Stiles’, closer in color to Scott’s, and they’re shrewd, like she’s trying to figure him out. Finally, she heaves a sigh and tells him, “Close the window before you let all the cool air out. After spending more than half my life as a coyote, I actually appreciate the air-conditioning.”  
  
Hesitantly, he does so, crossing to take a seat at Stiles’ computer desk as Malia pushes herself into a sitting position, tucking her bare ankles under her thighs. She’s naked, he realizes as the sheets slip down her body to pool in her lap, and for a terrible moment, he gets the urge to do something stupid, like _blush_.  
  
Now that he’s paying attention, he can smell Stiles on her, the smell of spunk on her skin. It’s an older scent, from yesterday or the day before, but it’s there. Derek wrinkles his nose and fights down the urge to growl again.  
  
“You’re prettier now,” she tells him bluntly, cocking a head in his direction. “You were pretty before too, but this is better.”  
  
“ _Thank you_.”  
  
Malia rolls her eyes at him. “Oh good, more sarcasm. I don’t get enough of that from _him_.”  
  
She jerks her head towards Stiles, reaching out and smoothing an oddly gentle hand through his hair.  
  
“It grows on you,” he explains, tracking the path her hand takes with his eyes. He shrugs. “Like a fungus.”  
  
Malia doesn’t laugh, but the hint of a smile cracks her lips, and they sit there in silence for another minute, eying each other, before she yawns widely, slumping back against the headboard with a sigh. “I smelled you before, you know,” she says, rubbing her hands against the sheets. “The first time I was in this room, your smell was everywhere —  on his sheets, on the books, on the computer. It drove me _crazy_.”  
  
“I was here a lot.”  
  
“I realized that.” She smiles, leaning forward, dark eyes crinkling with quiet mirth. “It confused me though, because I could never smell _sex_ , just you.”  
  
He frowns at her, leaning far enough back in the chair that it squeaks, the back thumping against the edge of the computer desk. “So my question,” she goes on, curiosity coming off of her in waves. “Is why a werewolf would scent every single piece of furniture in this room and _not_ be all over that.”  
  
She waves a hand at Stiles and Derek draws himself up straight again, deadpans, “Maybe he was just pack. Maybe I’m not interested in Stiles.”  
  
Malia snorts. “If it were that, Scott’s room would smell like you. Kira’s room would smell like you. Even _Lydia’s_. But it’s just his.”  
  
He scowls harder, but she’s not done, quirking a half-familiar crooked grin his way and saying, “Besides, I’m not stupid. I have a _nose_. You must remember what he smelled like when we first found you, even if you did smell like death at the time." Malia pauses, head cocked like she's considering him. Bluntly, she says, "He wants to mount you. And I’m guessing that you would let him.”  
  
“He’s—”  
  
“Your mate,” she finishes, grinning triumphantly when he winces. It wasn’t what he was going to say, but it’s close enough to the truth that he doesn’t correct her.  
  
“And he’s yours,” he says instead. He smirks, for the first time since he entered this room. “Your anchor _and_ your mate.”  
  
She snaps her teeth at him, but doesn’t deny it, just switches position, curling her legs out and around Stiles.  
  
They’re quiet, staring at each other.  
  
“So,” she starts, licking her lips and slanting a challenging look his way. “My other question is: how do you feel about sharing?”  
  
.  
  
Stiles wakes up overheated and shoves at Malia’s thigh with a grunt, wrinkling his nose at the feel of sweat on his skin.  
  
“C’mon,” he mumbles, shoving at her. “Too hot.”  
  
She doesn’t even have the decency to mumble back at him, just shifts closer, her arms closing around his waist like a vice. He whines. That’s the exact opposite of what he wanted and not even her bare tits pressing up against his back is enough to distract him, because as awesome as they are, they are also _literally_ stuck to his skin. Ugh.  
  
He attempts to shimmy forward, needing to put at least an inch of space between them, but he hits a wall. A hot, sweaty wall that feels a lot like skin.  
  
Reluctantly, he blinks his eyes open.  
  
And he is immediately _completely_ awake.  
  
He’s seen Derek asleep abouta dozen times, back when he used to use talking to Stiles about research as an excuse to fall asleep in his bed. Stiles had given him shit for it every single time, because he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t give Derek Hale a hard time. This is different though, because even when Derek was using his room as a safe haven between him and the police they have never, ever shared a bed. _Ever._  
  
So he’s at the very least familiar with the way Derek’s face looks when it’s slack with sleep — actual sleep, not just being knocked unconscious, though he’s more than acquainted with that look as well. He knows what the guy looks like when he’s got pillow creases on his face and a nasty case of bedhead. He even knows that sometimes, Derek won’t snap awake with a glow of his wolfy eyes. Sometimes, Derek wakes up slowly, bleary-eyed and almost touchable.  
  
This is Derek Hale, asleep in his bed. Those are Derek’s arms, wrapped around his hips, side by side next to Malia’s own octopus limbs. That is Derek Hale’s face, tucked into the crook of Stiles’ neck.  
  
And this is Stiles, sandwiched between his kind-of-sorta girlfriend and the guy he’s been crushing on since he was sixteen.  
  
He has no idea what is happening.  
  
He tries, rather valiantly, not to freak out.  
  
Not surprisingly, he fails.  
  
His heartbeat must be quick enough to offend were-whatever sensibilities or something, because Malia shifts behind him with a groan and slaps him on the arm, mumbling, “Oh my god, shut it off.”  
  
“Can’t say that I’ve quite mastered the skill of shutting my heart off yet,” he squeaks, mortified when Derek murmurs something and presses his face even closer, lips and stubble alike dragging against Stiles’ hammering pulse. “But for you, dear, I’ll try.”  
  
Malia huffs humid air against the back of his neck and curls in tighter, the drag of their skin together more slick than sticky, thank god. She nibbles at his neck and he squeaks again, attempting to hold himself still, because jesus. This is straight out of wet dream territory and he’d check his fingers to see if he’s still dreaming, but he’s pretty sure that even _he_ couldn’t get all the details straight.  
  
“Stop freaking out,” she whispers, rubbing herself against him. It’s not really in an intentionally hot way, more like the way that dogs and cats rub themselves against you because they want pets, but she’s naked, and Stiles is a perfectly functional teenage boy sandwiched between two _very_ hot people. Who are in his bed.  
  
“I’m not freaking out,” he whispers back furiously, voice too high to be steady. “Are you freaking out? And oh yeah, important question here. _Why is Derek Hale in my bed_?”  
  
Malia laughs at him, nipping his ear this time, her fingers drifting in lazy circles over his belly. It's distracting. The sound he makes in response isn’t another squeak, but it’s pretty close.  
  
Derek shifts again and Stiles can feel his nose crinkle. He twitches when what has to be Derek’s eyelashes flutter against his chin. “Stiles,” he growls, voice all rough with sleep, and god, not helping the boner situation one bit. “Shut up.”  
  
He barks out a faintly hysterical laugh and wriggles, inordinately pleased when they _both_ growl at him. “You always say that, dude, but uh. I think I kind of deserve to know why I’ve got _two_ creatures of the night in my bed instead of just the one. And oh my god, why hasn’t Malia killed you yet?”  
  
Malia laughs again and hooks her leg over his hip, her ankle draping itself over Derek’s knee. He just grunts at her.  
  
“We had a chat,” she says, which isn’t an explanation at all. He tells her as much.  
  
“You’re territory,” she tells him in that flat way that means she thinks she’s telling him everything he needs to know when, in fact, she totally isn’t. He can practically hear her rolling her eyes.  
  
“So what, he did the creeper wolf coming in through the window thing and you figured you’d _invite him to bed_?” he whispers, voice going slightly shrill. He attempts to sit up, only to be dragged back down by Derek, who takes the Malia approach of stopping Stiles from moving with his body, and flops half on top of him.  
  
She snorts. “Something like that.”  
  
He flounders, shuddering when her leg tightens around his hip just as Derek nuzzles sleepily beneath his chin. “But why?”  
  
He’s still mostly on his side, face turned towards Derek even though his body is twisted so that his torso is facing up, most of Derek’s weight on his chest. It’s uncomfortably comfortable, but the position means that he sees it when Derek’s eyes slide open. They’re half-lidded and he’s bleary-eyed in a familiar way, but he’s looking at Stiles now, soft with something that’s almost affection. It’s unusual; Stiles can’t tear his gaze away.  
  
Distantly, he’s aware of Malia snorting again, uncurling so that she can join in on the dogpile, wedging her leg under Derek’s body and sprawling out across the bit of his chest that isn’t occupied by Derek. They overlap a little bit, her arm thrown over Derek’s back so that they’ve both got room.  
  
“That’s why, stupid,” she tells him flatly, nostrils flaring pointedly before she ducks her head down and sucks a chunk of Stiles’ neck into her mouth.  
  
He yelps, shuddering under her, and finally tears his eyes away from Derek, suddenly too embarrassed, his face going hot as he looks away. Unconcerned, Malia rubs herself against him again and this time, it _is_ intentionally sexy, the slick wet heat of her sliding against his hip. He bites his lip so he doesn’t do something stupid like actually _moan_ when some part of her body, thigh probably, drags against his dick.  
  
“We—” he starts, has to cut himself off with a choked little whimper when she grinds against him again. “I—”  
  
There are fingers under his chin, guiding him so that he’s facing Derek again. He blinks his eyes open. Doesn’t know when he shut them.  
  
“Hey,” Derek says softly, peering at him in the dark. He still looks sleepy, but there’s an alertness there that wasn’t before, and his eyes—Derek’s pupils are huge, eyes wide and open, his lips red and shiny like he’s been chewing on them. He looks a little wrecked, probably about as much as Stiles does right now. “We don’t have to do this, you know. I can leave.”  
  
“No, you can’t,” Malia huffs, dragging her lips down Stiles’ neck. He shudders.  
  
“I don’t even—”  
  
 _Know why you’re here_. He bites his tongue until he tastes blood so that he doesn’t say it.  
  
“You’re his mate,” Malia tells him flippantly, and he glances down at her, surprised. She’s got her chin propped up on his collarbone and looks a bit like she’s contemplating biting it. She’s staring at him though, visibly irritated at having to stop humping him, and her eyes are dark and wide, honest.  
  
“I’m—” He glances back at Derek. “—What?”  
  
“You’re _our_ mate,” Derek corrects gently, face still too open, too vulnerable. “You’re mine, but you’re hers too.”  
  
“I told him that I didn’t mind sharing you though,” Malia whispers, pressing another kiss to his skin. “You like him, I know it.”  
  
“But why—”  
  
She shrugs, giving him a shy smile. “I want you to be happy. You’re important to me and he makes you happy, so I’m okay with it.”  
  
It’s not— It’s probably the weirdest declaration of romantic intentions ever, including the first time that Malia had crawled into his window, shrugged, and said “You’re mine and I’m yours,” then cuddled the crap out of him, and it wasn’t even Derek who said it. He’s never even considered that whatever feelings he’s had for Derek might actually be _reciprocated_.  
  
They’re going to have to actually talk about this later, because he knows jack-squat about mates besides for the shit he’s read on the internet. He knows they have to talk about this later, but for now, this feels right. It does.  
  
He makes sure that he’s looking at Derek when he slowly, carefully, nods and is rewarded when Derek gives him this weirdly soft little smile that makes his heart thump faster in his chest.  
  
It’s weird, having sex with more than one person. He’s always let Malia take lead the few times that they’ve actually got around to having sex, lets her control the pace so she can figure out what she likes and doesn’t like — what _he_ likes and doesn’t like — because this is still new for both of them, but even more so for her.  
  
This time isn’t much different, even with Derek involved. Whenever he’s imagined sex with Derek before, it’s been all walls and rough lips, sharp teeth and inhuman growls. But actually having sex with him is a completely different story. Derek seems content to watch Malia rub herself against Stiles, his eyes wide and dark as Malia takes hold of two of Stiles' fingers and guides them up to his mouth. He sucks on them, wraps his lips around his own damn fingers and sucks at them until they're good and wet, until Derek's hips are twitching against his. Just when he's thinking about replacing the fingers in his mouth with something else, Malia takes hold of them again, and pulls, makes him slide them down her body and between her legs.  
  
At first, Derek doesn’t move at all, doesn’t give any indication that Stiles’ hitched breaths and Malia’s soft gasps are affecting him at all. Then Malia shifts, sinking deeper onto Stiles’ fingers and gasps, “Touch him.”  
  
Stiles would think that she’d been talking to him, but before he can consider just _where_ he wants to touch Derek, Derek’s hand is sliding into his underwear and tugging his dick out, thumbing the head absently as he gets his hand around it.  
  
Stiles whines, he thinks, arching up into Derek’s touch, and he’s pretty sure that one of them laughs at him, but he’s too busy cataloging the differences between Malia’s hands and Derek’s to care.  
  
Derek’s hands are big and, while they’re absent of calluses, they’re rough, worn the way that people who have worked with their hands their whole lives are. He’s a lot more confident about his touches than Malia, which makes sense, since he has a dick of his own and is actually in full control of his shifts. Malia’s always worried that she’ll forget and hurt him, so whenever she has her hands (not mouth, not yet) around him, she’s gentler than she usually is.  
  
Everything’s a little bit hazy for awhile, Stiles biting down on his knuckles to muffle the sounds he’s making, his entire world narrowed down to Malia rocking down onto his fingers and the biting kisses that Derek trails down his chest.  
  
“Kiss him,” Malia demands with a shallow gasp, and Derek does, leaning in and getting his mouth on Stiles like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.  
  
Stiles flicks his thumb against Malia’s clit and feels it when she comes, tightening up around his fingers as she slumps forward, mouthing sloppily at his neck to muffle her own cries. Derek’s still kissing him, still pumping Stiles’ dick, and it occurs to Stiles that he should probably touch Derek too, because the erection that’s grinding into his hip feels like it might actually be painful.  
  
When he gets his hand into Derek’s underwear, the other man lets out a whuff of surprise, fist tightening around Stiles’ dick, and that’s it, that’s all it takes to have Stiles coming all over his belly with a hoarse cry.  
  
He’s always a bit shit the first few seconds after orgasm, so he isn’t surprised that when he comes back to himself, Derek’s got a hand around his own dick, fingers still slick from Stiles’ come, and god, isn’t that a sight. Malia’s watching Derek from where she’s got her head pillowed on Stiles’ chest, and the way she’s looking at him, considering and intense, makes Stiles think that she wants to reach out and touch.  
  
Derek’s eyes don’t leave his when he comes, his entire body shuddering like it’s thinking about caving in on itself.  
  
It isn’t planned, he doesn’t think, the way that they both slump against him and suck identical hickies on opposite sides of his neck, it’s probably some weird were-thing instinct, but he appreciates it anyway, wiggling with pleasure as they nip and suck at his skin.  
  
“We’re talking about this later,” he mumbles when they're done _marking_ him, his face smushed against Derek’s shoulder.  
  
“Shut up, Stiles,” they both say together, curling tighter around him.  
  
.  
  
The next day at school, when Scott eyes the hickeys on Stiles’ neck and hisses, “Holy shit, was she really not happy with just the one?” Stiles grins at him, and thumps him on the back happily.  
  
He thinks about tugging Malia out of bed this morning and pushing her towards the window, so she’d have enough time to get home and change before they had to be at school, and how Derek had sleepily watched him get ready, sprawled limp and languid all over Stiles sheets.  
  
He’d kissed Derek Hale goodbye this morning, left him drowsing on the bed with a smile on his face, and reminded him, “Definitely talking about this later. Seriously.”  
  
Then he’d kissed him again, because why the fuck not.  
  
“Guess not,” he answers happily, catching Malia’s eyes across the hall and winking.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr! My [writing blog](http://callunawrites.tumblr.com/) and [my primary one](http://callunavulgari.tumblr.com/). :)


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